Fighting, apparently. I couldn’t hear them, but their expressions were loud and clear. His lips pursed tight, eyes blazing. Her gaze on the fly-specked window above them, her mouth fixed in a scowl. She started to say something, broke it off with a terse shake of her head, eyes returning to the window. I couldn’t read lips, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what he was saying. What, what? She didn’t answer, he angrily swilled his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Now she said something, probably a crack about his manners. He smirked, started giving her more what-for. She caught me looking; I smiled and mouthed the words good luck. She grinned, he whipped his head around to glare at me, but I’d already turned my attention back to my business: beer, another shot, cigarettes.
I was busy trying not to think about the snafu my undercover work had gotten me into when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned: the girl. Champ was nowhere to be seen.
“Thanks,” she said. Rich, expressive voice, light drawl. Upper South, I guessed.
“For?”
“Encouraging me to dump him.”
“Did I?”
“Isn’t that what you said? Dump him?”
“Sure did,” I decided to say.
“Do you often give out sage advice in bars?”
“Ever since my advice column got cancelled.”
“Well, I took it.”
“Yeah? How’d he take it?”
A shrug. “Ah’m sure one of his other girlfriends will soften the blow.”
“That kind, huh?”
A laugh. “Yeah, that kind.”
I asked, “A drink to celebrate your independence?”
“S’long as it’s not here.”
“Bad memories, huh?”
Another laugh. “How’d you know?”
I finished off my second shot, dropped a tip, we left.
“This your neighborhood?” she asked.
“Nope. Yours?”
She shook her head. “Our feud started at a party, and being the decent folk we are, we came here so as not to cause a scene.”
“I know a quiet place the other side of the Mall,” I said.
“A quiet place in Washington? Didn’t know one existed.”
“They don’t advertise.”
“Off the beaten track?”
“Could say that.”
“Sounds nice.”
“They pour more than rye, too.”
A grin. “Yes, you don’t seem like a shot and a beer kinda joe.”
“No?”
“Ah’m thinking manhattans.”
I shook my head.
“A gin man, then.”
“Good guess. Gibsons.”
“How’s your barman’s highball?”
“He adds a kiss of ginger ale to the club soda.”
She clapped her hands in delight. “A man who knows his drinks, Ah’m so pleased.”
I didn’t ask if she meant me or the barman. She opened her tiny black clutch and pulled out a gold cigarette case. I tapped out a Lucky from my crumpled pack, struck a match, lit us up. Cool evening, breeze riffling leaves. She had a cream-colored shawl wrapped around her shoulders, pulled it tighter. We were walking north on Fourth Street, past dilapidated row houses and more taverns like the one we’d just left. Close to the Mall, dull government offices had sprouted like weeds. Social Security, Railroad Retirement Board, the Federal Warehouse.
We kept up the chitchat as we crossed the green expanse, crowded with “tempos” to house war agencies. Her name was Mara. She didn’t volunteer her family name, I didn’t ask. Hailed from Greensboro, North Carolina, had washed up in D.C. in ’43. Worked as a steno at “one of those alphabet soup agencies,” no further details offered. I kept my story short, too, and true. Grew up in Chicago, enlisted in the Navy right out of high school, finagled a commission before Pearl, arrived in D.C. in ’42.
The place I was taking her was just off Third and Indiana, about a block from the Federal Court House. Basement space, rear entry, no sign, just a solid wooden door with a glazed window at the bottom of the stone steps. Wasn’t a speakeasy—you didn’t have to use a special knock or other Prohibition-era nonsense to get in—but it sure helped if a regular brought you in your first time and vouched for you. An assistant U.S. attorney I’d helped out a couple of years earlier had initiated me—the lawyers, clerks, and judges who worked in nearby Judiciary Square regarded the place as a kind of gentlemen’s club. Downie’s, the attorney had called it. I didn’t make a habit of drinking there, but I liked to show my face now and again so I wasn’t forgotten.
“Gibson, sir?” the bartender Frederick asked as soon as we were seated at the upholstered bar with a glimmering top.
“Please. And a highball for the lady.”
He nodded respectfully and turned to his work. Frederick was an elderly Negro, his hair snowy white. A trim, short man, he dressed impeccably. That night, a bespoke suit, dark blue, an off-white oxford shirt pressed and starched, silver cuff links, a tie with a gray and silver pattern. Looked just like the lawyers who frequented the place. Hell, for all I knew, Frederick was a lawyer—maybe there was more money in cocktails than in whatever legal work the D.C. big shots left for the colored bar.
Mara looked around at the dark oak paneling, the polished light sconces, the plush chairs in the lounge. “Far cry from the last place,” she commented.
Asking what I was doing down in Southwest D.C.? I wondered. “Night and day, sure,” I said.
“Do you bring all your dates here?” Smiling playfully.
“Only my wife.”
“You don’t strike me as the settled-down type.” Still smiling, knowing I was joking.
“These days, is anyone?”
“Well, the war’s almost over.”
“So what date did you pick?”
“What d’you mean?”
“In your office pool. For when the Japs cry uncle.” At the Navy Building, I had twenty on August 4.
“Now, Ellis, what makes you think Ah’m the gambling sort?”
You’re here, aren’t you? Instead, “I’m blessed with modest powers of clairvoyance.”
“Modest? That mean you’re too shy to use those powers?”
“Oh no. Palm, please.”
She extended her right hand, fingers limp, as if for a gentleman’s kiss. I turned her palm up, and, cupping her knuckles with my left hand, traced my right forefinger across the horizontal creases on her palm. Kept my touch light, felt a quiver in her wrist.
“So what’s my fortune?”
“That I don’t know.”
“So what can you tell me?”
“That you are a gambling kinda gal and you picked July twenty-seventh for the Japs’ surrender.”
She laughed. “Close—July twenty-second.”
“Like I said, ‘modest powers.’”
Frederick set our drinks down, we clinked glasses. “To bright futures”—Mara’s toast. I thought she might ask what I did for the Navy, but she kept the conversation frivolous. How’d I like D.C., had I seen The Valley of Decision yet? She prattled about the party she’d been to with Champ, told me how nice her landlady was. Another girl, another night, I would’ve made a play halfway through our drinks, but I decided to hold back, see if she’d take the turn herself.
Which she did by asking, “So do you billet with your fellow officers, Ellis?”
I shook my head. “Got my own place.”
She arced a perfectly plucked eyebrow—in the wartime boomtown, your own place was as uncommon as a hosiery sale or copper pipes. “How’d you swing that?”
I rubbed my temples. “I used my modest powers of clairvoyance. Which are also telling me nightcaps await us there.”
Not one of my better lines, but considering the day I’d had, I was long gone past slick.
CHAPTER 3
BACK IN MY BASEMENT FLAT, I MIXED TWO MARTINIS IN THE KITCHEN and brought them to the living room, where Mara sat in the lone upholstered chair. I didn’t hav
e a sofa, so I brought in a chair from the kitchen. When she toasted to “bright futures” again, I leaned close and said, softly, “Starting now,” and set my drink down.
I kept the kiss slow, gentle, long—she liked that. Her breath quickened, she shifted closer. I lifted the glass out of her hand and set it on the floor, sloshing gin everywhere. Ran my hand over her neck, her back. We kindled the kiss for a long minute, but it’s pretty uncomfortable to neck with the arms of chairs between the two of you. Taking her hand, I stood and led her down the hallway. Pretty Spartan, my bedroom—just a thin double mattress on a wooden frame, a lamp atop an upturned apple crate, a wooden chair, and a battered chest of drawers—but if Mara was boarding, then chances were she was hot-cotting in a bunk bed.
We stood at the foot of the bed, keeping the kiss alive, her hands clutching my back. I let my hands drift down her back, to just above her hips. Mara was a fine kisser, no masher. When my fingers sought out the buckle on her belt, she gently but firmly pulled a step away.
“If you’ll allow me?” Smiling, she unbelted the dress, gracefully pulled it over her head, and expertly folded it. She set it on the seat of the wooden chair and reached behind her back to unfasten her brassiere, a blue lacy number that must’ve cost a fortune. The matching panties came off next. She also folded her undergarments, placed them atop the dress. A man didn’t have to be a Casanova to catch this cue—I was busy undressing, too, though my clothes didn’t end up folded and stacked. Now she only had on her patent leather pumps—an awful nice look for the right kind of girl, and Mara was the right kind of girl. Hourglass figure, flat stomach, firm breasts with brown-red nipples. She stepped out of the pumps, I pulled the covers back.
Afterward, Mara didn’t exactly skedaddle, but she didn’t linger, either. We shared a cigarette and the usual cooing.
“Ah’d better get dressed before I get sleepy,” she said.
“You don’t have to leave,” I said.
“Ah’d love to stay, but it’s a busy day for me tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
She slid off the mattress and stood, still unabashed, but gave me a shy, awkward look as she picked up her clothes. “Your bathroom is … ?”
“First door on the right,” beckoning.
I smoked another cigarette, glanced at my crumpled clothes on the floor, and wondered how she’d say good-bye.
“Ah wouldn’t say no to another highball some night,” that’s how. Standing in the doorway, the belt of her dress perfectly straight, fresh lipstick reflecting the dim light of the bedside lamp.
“That sure would be nice, Mara.” I got out of bed and pulled on my shorts, hoping I wouldn’t step on the condom I’d dropped somewhere in the vicinity of my clothes.
“You can leave messages for me at this number.” She extended a slip of paper with her name and a telephone number printed in neat block letters. I palmed it and walked her to the door, treating myself to a long look at the sway and switch of her hips under the snug fabric of her dress.
“Maybe an evening next week?” I proposed.
“Maybe. My social calendar fills up fast.” Giving me that playful smile she’d first tried out at the tavern on Fourth Street.
“Then I won’t wait long to call,” I said.
“That’s good to hear.”
At the threshold I leaned close to kiss her cheek, mindful of the lipstick. She turned to smile once more as I shut the door.
I picked up my unfinished martini, took it to the kitchen, and dropped in two ice cubes. Back in the living room I sprawled out in the upholstered chair and went over the evening so far, since the moment I left the factory. Figured the Russians were watching me close. A shadow was a cinch, I hadn’t even bothered checking window reflections to see who was trailing me. But had they gone one step further, had they planted Mara in the closest tavern to the factory, figuring I’d need a drink or three to steady my nerves? That kind of gutbucket didn’t front B-girls, and it sure as hell didn’t draw lookers on the make. Was Mara on the Russians’ string, a party member or pinko eager to help the cause? If so, the scene with her squeeze was staged, Champ another Red starring in the one-act breakup so I wouldn’t get suspicious. The more I thought about the scene, the more it felt like a setup. Mara had glided from Champ to my bed in all of two hours. Maybe some girls pounced that fast, but not a well-bred deb like her, not for a lieutenant junior grade like me. Another clue: the note with her number. High-class Southern girls went to finishing schools where they perfected their cursive, but Mara had block-printed. Sound tradecraft, that—never leave a handwriting sample. Finally, the way she’d made love. She hadn’t been frigid, but she’d let me know what she wanted and when without saying a word. There was a word for her bedroom manner, but I couldn’t think of it until I remembered how she’d undressed: fastidious. Like she’d been ordered to make it with a stranger but to ensure it looked like a genuine quickie, not a setup. Staying in control, keeping everything neat and clean, that’s how she’d gotten herself through it. Right down to the husky but brief cry of pleasure at the end. Had she faked it? Of course—the whole night was faked, now I was certain. The Russians were pushing the pedal, speeding up. Mara was a plant, a roper. Next time I brought her home, she wouldn’t leave after our roll in the hay. Dutifully following her instructions from the N.K.V.D., she’d offer to make us drinks and dope mine. Then the Russians would give my flat a real wringing, toss it from top to bottom while I snored, naked and flat on my back. Finding the pawnshop ticket I’d hidden in the kitchen wouldn’t take long, and this operation would fail awful fast once they redeemed that hock.
I drained my martini, the ice cubes clinking, and looked regretfully at the spilled gin on the floor from Mara’s drink. That had been the last of my booze, and I needed another drink.
THE NEXT MORNING WAS SATURDAY, BUT I WAS ON DUTY AT 7:00 A.M. at the Navy Building, the Mall tempo that housed the O.N.I. I decided against telling my C.O., Commander Paslett, about my go-around with Shovel-face and his pal. Better to wait until I knew what to do about the kid from the Automat. As it was, I had one day left on a punishment detail for a mistake I’d made while undercover as Ted Barston: just before picking up an envelope for Himmel as his courier, I’d sent a telegram, as Ellis Voigt, to my gal, Liv, setting up a date. The F.B.I. agents had found out and told Commander Paslett. He’d filed a spec, a specification of an offense, which I hadn’t disputed. I could have been—I should have been—demoted, but Paslett liked me, he’d secretly been proud of how I’d stood up to the drubbing from the Bureau while I was posing as Barston. So for two months I had to answer the telephone number we give out to the public. Only Sundays off. Say Joe Q. Citizen thinks his boss is bribing a naval procurement officer, or Mary Do-Gooder’s machinist boyfriend is stealing dies from his shop at the Navy Yard. They could call that number to make a report without leaving their names. The nutter line, we called it, because ninety-nine of one hundred calls were stinko. By my third day, I’d taken close to sixty calls from raving loons, grudgers looking to settle scores with coworkers and bosses, Miss Lonelyhearts desperate to talk, and a few jokers who thought I could bust their landlords for rent gouging. But every time I felt like beating my head against the desk, I reminded myself that the spec offered good cover for the game I was playing with the Russians.
The morning was slow, just two calls, both useless. To keep from watching the clock, I read every story in the Times-Herald. Twice. Worked the crossword, read my horoscope. It wasn’t encouraging. Plenty of activity in the building—O.N.I., like all intelligence agencies, worked round-the-clock—but no one popped in to even say hello. My partner, Terrance Daley, sometimes dropped by to chew the fat, but he was off that day. I sorely missed knowing what was going on in the Navy Building and being a part of it. Occasionally I caught rumors, including a juicy one that the new president was going to disband a rival agency, the Office of Strategic Services, or O.S.S., and give some of its duties to O.N.I., but mostly I kept my head down
and waited out the long hours on the nutter desk.
At noon I let the switchboard know I was taking my lunch break and raced out of the building. Driscoe’s, on Seventeenth, was my greasy spoon as of late. Decent hash, strong coffee, didn’t skimp on the sandwich meat. I’d just tucked into a cheeseburger, the news murmuring on the Philco at the end of the counter, when I caught the reflection of Agent Clayton Slater, of the F.B.I., in the coffeemaker as he entered. Because of the urn’s curve, his face was oval, nose huge and eyes bulging. Good look for him, I decided. Slater and his partner Reid were the two agents who had detained me while I was undercover. They’d roughed me up, they’d ratted me out to Paslett about the telegram to my gal, they’d wanted me court-martialed. Last night the N.K.V.D., today the Bureau—how come my horoscope never gave me a heads-up?
Slater slid into the stool next to me and helped himself to a French fry.
“Any good calls this morning, Voigt?”
“Other than from your wife, no.”
“Aw, s’that all you got? Last time I saw you, you were a fountain of sarcasm.”
I slid my platter away so he couldn’t take another fry. “Ted Barston was a lot funnier than me.”
“That’s for sure. But then, you’re a lot luckier than Ted, aren’t you?”
Instead of the bait, I took a huge bite of my cheeseburger and chewed noisily.
“Two months on the nutter line for breaking cover, that’s barely a slap on the wrist,” Slater went on, as if I had replied. “Not to mention the fact that Ted’s dead and you’re not. Like I said, lucky.”
“Say what you came to say, then beat it.”
“Philip Greene is telling us quite a tale.”
“So?” Greene was the commie charged with killing Skerrill, the naval lieutenant who’d been working for both the Russians and the Bureau. I’d found the murder weapon at Greene’s flat, I’d had him arrested, I’d interrogated him, all before the Bureau took him into custody.
Rip the Angels from Heaven Page 2
